Solitary ponderings.
The rain is beating down on me. My umbrella manages to keep me dry from the knees up. I stand here every day, on one of the busiest roads, right smack in the middle of London; I don't even let the shitty weather deter me. I stand here on the look out, looking for anyone, anything, but no one ever comes. I'm all alone.
It's been seven years now since I woke up into a lifeless world, a world devoid of living and thinking beings. The first weeks were tough; I was engrossed in an incredulous panic and denial was the only thing that kept me going. I kept wondering what happened, where'd everybody go? Did everyone die? Did I die? But at some point a switch is flicked in your brain, and the unbelievable becomes believable, the unlikely becomes likely, and fiction becomes fact. Asking questions when no one is around to answer them is futile, so I stopped.
Seven years I've been wandering the streets of the city I was born and raised in. Going to and fro, sleeping here and there, eating this and that. The city is filled to the brim with canned food and luxurious apartments, so there's been no shortage of food and living space.
Yet virtually every day I end up here, on Charing Cross road, waiting for someone, anyone, to break this waking dream I am in. Sometimes I think I see something, someone, a fleeting glance moving in my peripheral vision, but I know now that it is merely my mind trying to cope. The human mind wasn't built for complete solitude; they didn't make solitary confinement a form of punishment without good reason. The mind needs another mind, to bounce ideas off of, to interact and connect with. Yet here I am, as alone as anyone could ever be, and my mind, even after seven years, still plays its subconscious tricks to make me feel less alone.
I sometimes ponder that age-old adage: if a tree falls in a forest with no one around to hear it, does it make a sound? I feel like that tree, screaming out, wanting to be heard, but reaching no one. I wonder, do I exist, if no one is around to see me existing. Do I need company, another sentient being, to validate my existence, or is it enough to live for living's sake. Just being; nothing else. Perhaps I am Schrodinger's cat, and this lifeless world is my box. Trapped in some kind of limbo, neither living nor dead, and waiting for someone to observe me so that I can finally be one or the other. I'd settle for either.
It stopped raining.
It's been seven years now since I woke up into a lifeless world, a world devoid of living and thinking beings. The first weeks were tough; I was engrossed in an incredulous panic and denial was the only thing that kept me going. I kept wondering what happened, where'd everybody go? Did everyone die? Did I die? But at some point a switch is flicked in your brain, and the unbelievable becomes believable, the unlikely becomes likely, and fiction becomes fact. Asking questions when no one is around to answer them is futile, so I stopped.
Seven years I've been wandering the streets of the city I was born and raised in. Going to and fro, sleeping here and there, eating this and that. The city is filled to the brim with canned food and luxurious apartments, so there's been no shortage of food and living space.
Yet virtually every day I end up here, on Charing Cross road, waiting for someone, anyone, to break this waking dream I am in. Sometimes I think I see something, someone, a fleeting glance moving in my peripheral vision, but I know now that it is merely my mind trying to cope. The human mind wasn't built for complete solitude; they didn't make solitary confinement a form of punishment without good reason. The mind needs another mind, to bounce ideas off of, to interact and connect with. Yet here I am, as alone as anyone could ever be, and my mind, even after seven years, still plays its subconscious tricks to make me feel less alone.
I sometimes ponder that age-old adage: if a tree falls in a forest with no one around to hear it, does it make a sound? I feel like that tree, screaming out, wanting to be heard, but reaching no one. I wonder, do I exist, if no one is around to see me existing. Do I need company, another sentient being, to validate my existence, or is it enough to live for living's sake. Just being; nothing else. Perhaps I am Schrodinger's cat, and this lifeless world is my box. Trapped in some kind of limbo, neither living nor dead, and waiting for someone to observe me so that I can finally be one or the other. I'd settle for either.
It stopped raining.
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